Coming Home
by Kuriyami
Summary: PostRENT oneshot. Mark muses over the deaths of his friends. Not angsty, I promise. Please read and review.


Okay, so I finally decided to write a RENT fic. Basically, it's post-RENT, in Mark's point of view. I don't know really how to describe it, but when I started write, that's what came out. It's one of those one-shot kadoos. It's sad (at least I actually did cry when I was writing it), but I do like the end. ANYWAY. I'll let you read the rest. 

**Disclaimer**: Because we all know RENT and all its wonderful little characters belong to Jonathan Larson.

* * *

I can't sleep.

I've had many sleepless nights now. At first, I couldn't get to bed. It'd take me an hour or two to fall asleep. Now I can hardly sleep an hour without waking up. I'm having a tough time.

I see the Fender guitar laid against the wall as I open my door to get a drink of water. Roger's door is shut. Has been for a long time now. His death was the hardest to get over. I still can't talk about it, except maybe when I'm really drunk. After he died and I had stuck myself in the loft for a good two weeks, Joanne and Maureen came and got me, bringing huge amounts of alcohol with them. I remember thinking of Collins, how he'd always come over to the loft bringing god-knows-what so Roger and I wouldn't starve to death. But that night, we all got stone drunk and talked about our friends. Angel, Mimi, Collins, Roger. I know we talked for the longest time, but none of us really remember any of it. I myself only remember snippets of the conversation.

The water fills the glass halfway, and I drink it. I set the glass down on the table and sit down. Itake off my glasses, and set them beside the drinking glass. I put my head in my arms. God, it's so hard these days. Hard to get to sleep, hard to talk, hard to go on with my life. I mean, suicide's never been an option for me, I never wanted it. After seeing April, I knew I never could. Sure, I wanted to. God, all those horrible moments when Roger was going through rehab. But I knew if I killed myself, Roger would just crash. First his girlfriend, then his best friend? Jesus. Roger was already fragile already, in his own way. One more death would have sent him smashing apart.

I bring my head up enough to see the Fender guitar. It's been sitting there for months. I haven't had the heart to move it. Right beside Roger's door it sits, waiting to be picked up, waiting to be played. If I move it, it means he's really dead.

Mimi died shortly after Angel. We all knew it wasn't long, but we hoped. She died right in Roger's arms; I think she was happiest there. It was so unexpected, though. I was making myself tea, and Roger and Mimi were snuggling on the couch. Mimi smiled, and chuckled. "This is one of the best moments in my life. I love you guys. I love you guys so much." Roger and I smiled. Her voice was so light, so soft, but so full of emotion.

"We love you, Mimi," he said, laying his head on hers. "We'll always love you." I poured the tea into two glasses (we wanted Mimi to drink something healthy), and handed one to Roger. Roger thanked me, and nudged Mimi. "Mimi? Mimi, Mark's made you some tea. Want it?" But she didn't move. He nudged her again, kissing her forehead lightly. I took a long sip of my tea. Roger was so gentle with Mimi those last few days, as if he would break her if he held her too hard. "Mimi, wake up." His tone was more urgent now, almost begging. I looked up, and I saw Roger's eyes all misty. "Mimi, please. Mimi?" But she just sat there. He dropped the tea and hugged her, whispering her name over and over again. He cried into her hair. I went out of the loft, made phone calls to Collins, Joanne, Maureen, even Benny. I wanted Roger to mourn Mimi alone for a few minutes; he'd probably have us around him twenty-four-seven in the next few hours. I wanted him to have a last few minutes alone with Mimi, sweet Mimi, the dancer from upstairs.

We made sure she was buried right next to Angel. Collins made plans to be buried to Angel's left, next to the love of his life. He moved over after Mimi died. Even though we told him we didn't have much room, Collins slept on the couch anyway. It wasn't until much later he told me he felt like he needed to be here. If he was going to spend the rest of his life anywhere, he wanted to spend it with us. He cried, telling me everything. He missed Angel, he missed Mimi. He missed that bond we all had. He would miss me and Roger when he was gone.

Collins and Roger took their time. Both were healthy, both were strong. Collins's comforter is still on the couch. I haven't moved it, haven't sat on it. I don't want to. I don't want to disturb it.

Collins was, surprisingly, the next to go. Even though I hated to think it, I always thought that Roger would be the one to die. But it was Collins. He was walking from the store back to our house when the car hit him. Roger and I heard the crash, rushed downstairs. I called Joanne and Maureen from a payphone while Roger went to comfort Collins. I saw him whisper something into Roger's ear, and before I could get there, he fell unconscious. People didn't want to come near him; he was bleeding, he had AIDS, they didn't want AIDS. Even the paramedics didn't really want to touch them. Joanne and Maureen pulled up just as Roger was yelling at them for even daring to pause to help Collins. He died at the hospital shortly after, before we could even get there. He had bled too much, too fast. They couldn't help him. We were in the loft trying to gather some clothes for Collins when we got the phone call. Maureen practically collapsed in Joanne's arms, sobbing. Joanne stroked her hair, trying to maintain control, telling Maureen everything was alright. But she couldn't contain herself for long, and soon, they were both just a heaping mass on the floor, crying and sobbing. I looked at Roger, and he was looking out the window. I was tears streaming down his face. Roger, crying.

He looked at me, and in that moment, I saw everything. I saw his fear about dying. I saw his terror about dying next. His hatred of AIDS, his sorrow for Angel and Collins, for Mimi. Being scared about leaving me. Being scared about leaving Joanne and Maureen. His not wanting to leave life at all, his want to live. I saw all this in a matter of seconds. He sat down on a chair, and put his hands on his head, supporting them with his elbows. And I was the lone one standing, staring at the floor, rivers flowing down my cheeks, staining my scarf and my shirt. I felt so out of place; I wanted to go hug Maureen and Joanne, or sit by Roger, but I just couldn't move.

Collins was buried right next to Angel, and Benny was nice enough to get one tombstone with both their names on it. Like they had been married. We always smiled at it when we came to the cemetery, like a little joke. After that, we told Benny he should come over often. He just smiled at us. "Maybe," he said, and that was it. Maureen and Joanne moved a little closer, the four of us hung out a little more, but nothing special.

I could see Roger dying in front of me, and it killed me. His hands would shake as he held glasses to his mouth to drink, he got so thin and his clothes started to hang on him. But the worst part was when he would play the guitar, he fumbled the keys. Cursing, Roger would play songs over and over again, scrambling for the right keys but never finding them. For me, I knew he was almost gone when Roger finally came out of his room, placing the Fender guitar beside his door. He never moved it, and I've never moved it since.

Roger hated hospitals, especially after what happened with Collins. He refused to go, that stubborn bastard, but I respected his decision. I never forced him to go, and I don't think I ever would have. Roger and I both knew he was going to die, the question was when and how long can we put it off? By the end, Roger was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of life. He just wanted to go home to Mimi. Nine years after Angel had gone, seven years since Mimi had passed, four after Collins had died. But I didn't want to let him go. He was my best friend, my brother. He was my other half. He made me strong just like I made him strong. We complimented each other, even though sometimes it sure didn't seem that way. We were so close sometimes people even thought we were gay, completely ignoring the fact Roger had a girl for every year, it seemed. We laughed over that.

Roger was in bed the last few days. God, I couldn't cry because it made me so sad. Maybe there's a better word for 'sad' than how I felt, but that's the only one I can use. He stopped eating all together, saying he wasn't hungry, so I would bring tea for the both of us. The first day I did this Roger wrinkled up his nose. "_Tea_?" he said, and for a second the weak Roger was blown away, and the old Roger was back, with his brazen attitude and tough talk. "Mark, I hate tea. Why the fuck did you bring me tea?"

"Because I felt like it," I said. "If you're gonna be a smart-ass about it, I'm not forcing it down your throat. Though maybe I should anyway." He laughed, and it almost brought tears to my eyes. There was so much life in that laugh! So much unused potential he had left to give, all to be erased by AIDS.

"Well, maybe you should. Bring me some coffee." I scoffed at him.

"Coffee? Oh yeah, caffeine's really going to help you, Roger." I could see his face darken, and before he could open his mouth, I said, "We don't have any coffee, anyway. Just drink it and make me happy."

"I hate tea. It tastes horrible. I always wondered why you drank that shit."

"Would you like some cheese with your wine?" Roger laughed at the old saying, picking up the glass.

"Fine. But I'm not going to like it." But he drank it every day, despite making a huge fuss about it every time. It was a routine we would go through; I'd bring tea, he'd complain, we'd drink and talk about things, and as I left he would shout, "And next time, why don't you buy some coffee, Mark Cohen!" And I'd laugh. He may have been dying, but he still had spark.

The last day was the worst. He was coughing, and spitting out blood. I was getting worried, panicking. "Maybe I should get a doctor. Maybe you should go to the hospital." Roger hacked up some blood, and shook his head.

"No," he said simply. "No doctors." I was hysterical.

"Roger, you're dying!"

"I know." And that stopped me. The way that he said it. The simple, "I know," without any harshness or bitterness. Only that accepting tone, no regrets. Tears started to come, finally. I didn't sob, but I was close to just curling up in a ball on the floor. Roger motioned to me. "Come here." His voice, god, it killed me. Like Mimi's, so soft, as if the virus has washed away all the crisp, sharp tones from his voice and left it clean and calm. "I've been waiting a long time to tell you this, Mark," he started, and I could tell he was tired. "I never had the right moment, though. But...this, this is the right moment. Mark. Mark, look at me." I brought my eyes up to his and wish I hadn't. He was so serene, it made me want to cry again. "Do you remember when Collins had the accident, and you were calling everyone, and I rushed to his side?" I nodded. Of course I remembered. "He told me something before he blacked out. I was practically crying, and he looked up at me. He put his hand to my face and smiled. 'Roger,' he said," and Roger had to pause to cough, spitting what was probably blood into a tissue. "'Roger,' Collins said, 'I'm going to see my Angel. Roger, I'm finally going home.' And he closed his eyes. And that's the last thing I ever heard him say." Tears spilt over his cheeks. "Mark." It wasn't a question. "Mark, I'm going home. I'm finally going to see Mimi again." He closed his eyes, a wistful smile on his lips. "And I've waited so long, Mark, to see her again. To hold her against me, to kiss her and tell her I love her." He stopped, chuckling. "I'm getting pretty mushy, huh? I bet you expected me to go out with a bang." I smiled, and almost laughed.

"Yeah. Actually, Roger, I kinda did imagine you going out with a bang." We both laughed, cut short by a coughing fit.

"Sorry to disappoint," he said, wiping his mouth.

"Ah, that's okay," I replied. He looked up at the ceiling, and his bottom lip started to tremble.

"Mark, I'm going to miss you. I'm going to miss you so much." He started crying harder. "I know this is totally messing up my image, saying this kind of stuff," Roger said, smiling midst his tears, "but I'm going to miss you so much. What am I going to do without you, Mark?" And I started to sob. I sobbed right into his comforter, and he sobbed right with me. It was so unlike either of us, to cry. But death will do that to you. It will make you do crazy things. It was starting to dawn when we finally calmed down; we had cried for about a good forty-five minutes, if not an hour. Roger smiled at me. "We had good times, didn't we?"

"Yeah," I said. "We did." He looked up to the ceiling, and closed his eyes. For a second, my heart stopped beating. Then he looked at me again.

"I love you, man. I'm glad for us. I wouldn't have traded this for anything."

"Anything?"And for one last moment, Roger was himself again, a sly grin creeping onto his face, and for a second, I saw my friend again in all his glory.

"Well...maybe not _anything_." We both chuckled.

"I love you too," I said, a little surprisingly. I suppose I wanted to get it out there, before anything could happen. He grinned.

"Yeah. So, I'll see you?"

"Of course I'll see you." I smiled. "Like we really wouldn't see each other again." Roger laughed, but this time it was weak, a soft chuckle.

"We'll finally be home." And he closed his eyes. And a few minutes afterwards, I didn't see his chest move. He didn't breathe. And I cried. I sobbed with anguish. I practically screamed I was crying so hard. Afterwards, I called Maureen and Joanne, and I told them Roger was dead. They rushed over, eyes already wrapped in tears. But instead of going to see Roger first, they came and held me. Just held me and we were just a mess of sorrow, tears reflecting the moonlight.

It's been a couple months since that happened. I haven't moved anything. Roger's posters have started to peel off the walls, but I taped them back up. I couldn't go in there at first. Every time I'd move towards the door, I'd just see Roger, closing his eyes, about to die, and my hand would leave the doorknob as if electricity had jumped into it. But after a while, I could stand in the room, look at everything, remember all the good times.

It's hard, though, at times. Remembering the good and not the bad.

Benny came for Roger's funeral, but hasn't been in touch since. Joanne and Maureen come over occasionally to see how I'm doing, is everything okay, how have you been getting long, have you made new friends, have you been eating, did you film today? I film everything I can now. I tell them the truth, that everything is okay, I'm perfectly fine, I made a few friends here and here today, yes I've been eating, I've been filming nonstop, etc. I haven't told them about the insomnia, yet, but they're suspicious that I haven't been sleeping. They'll figure it out.

It's almost dawn. 5:05 in the morning. And I go get the projector. Maureen and Joanne surprised me with a new digital video recorder and a new system to play the material with, but I don't really use it. I'm too attached. And how could I throw away my projector? My films?

You can transfer your films onto tapes, DVDs, they say.

But I'm a sucker for the old days.

The projector still runs somewhat smoothly, and I sit behind it, watching the images on the wall. Suddenly, Roger comes on the screen. He's with Mimi. He's yelling at me that I have a camera in his face, to shut the damn thing off, and Mimi's hugging him, laughing at him trying to take it away from me. Collins and Angel are in the background, snuggling, and I jump over to them. They share a short kiss before Collins looks up and tells me to quit it. I zoom over to Joanne and Maureen, and Maureen flirts with my camera while Joanne protests in the background. I turn the camera to myself, and roll my eyes. Then, I hear something, laugh, and turn the camera around. They're all laughing, everyone. I forget if something happened or if someone said something, but we're all laughing. And the footage ends.

I close my eyes. It ends there, on the perfect moment. We're all smiling, all laughing, and for that one second, all of us forget about our problems, hate, prejudice, AIDS, and death, and all we can focus on is our laughter. The perfect moment.

I miss them so much.

_-fin._

* * *

I hope you liked it. And if you did fancy this little story, reviews are welcome. 


End file.
